


The Road to Hell (is paved with dead parrots, oddly.  And spam.)

by jasmasson



Category: Holy Flying Circus (2011), Monty Python RPF
Genre: Gen, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2011-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-28 00:15:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/301643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jasmasson/pseuds/jasmasson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dead parrots are always funny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Road to Hell (is paved with dead parrots, oddly.  And spam.)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [equestrianstatue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/equestrianstatue/gifts).



> This is a party political broadcast on behalf of the author: messed with the origins of the dead parrot sketch. This is a fake origin story based on a fake tv show. Once again, this is a fake. Actual origins obviously far funnier.

***

“Why are we driving to Chicago from New York?”

“Because John’s scared of flying.”

“I am not!”

“You spent the entire transatlantic flight out here unconscious on Valium and holding Mike’s hand.”

“I am not scared of flying. This is America, land of the automobile, Kerouac, the road trip as a creative genesis. We’re driving to release our comedic juices. I’m expecting a piece of comedy genius to jump out from the side of the road and get hit by the car.”

“We’re much more likely to hit a deer.”

“Were there really no flights straight to Chicago, Mike?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“We’re going to have to stop overnight – I can’t bear eighteen hours in a car with you lot without a break. Everyone in agreement say ‘John’s a big old scaredy-cat’.”

 _“John’s a big old scaredy-cat.”_

“... fine, yes, whatever, ‘John’s a big old scaredy-cat.’ Graham just wants to see what kind of big hairy truckers are staying in the nearest seedy motel.”

“Quite right.”

***

“I’ve got a new sketch.” John sat down next to Michael.

“Oh?” Michael looked up from his beer. They were staying over one night at a motel on the way, and the five of them – Terry G was meeting them in Chicago as he was coming separately from California – were all in the bar. “What’s it about?”

“A dead parrot.”

“Nice. There’s nothing funnier than dead pets.”

“Exactly.”

“Have you written it yet, or is it still in development?”

“I’ve got the idea.” John put a notebook on the table. Michael could see some scribbles on it. “I thought we could write it together. It requires someone to keep saying something asinine; it should fit your Oxford education perfectly.”

“Why aren’t you writing with Graham? You always write with Graham.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I don’t.”

“You do. Superior Cambridge light blues and all that.”

“I don’t.”

There was no point arguing with John in this mood. Declarations that gravity was an immutable law would result in lots of gravity-defying jumping around, and then probably a rant on the space programme.

Michael drank some of his beer, instead.

“What happens in the sketch?” he asked after a moment.

“I try and return a parrot I bought from you, on account of it being dead.”

“That’s funny?”

“You and I can make anything funny.”

“...You didn’t notice it was dead when you bought it?”

“You nailed it to the perch.”

“Cunning. What type of parrot is it?”

“...Um, a Norwegian Blue.”

“... Parrots are tropical, aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“Anyway,” John continued after a moment. “You’ll be in the sketch with me?”

“Of course. Nothing I like better than nailing dead parrots to things.”

“Oh, you won’t have to do that,” John said airily. “That will have been before the sketch. The actual sketch will mostly just be me shouting at you.”

“Like all our best sketches.”

“Exactly,” John smiled suddenly, his barely-there twitch of lip. “I don’t shout at anyone else as well as I shout at you.”

“Thanks.”

“Have you finished, Mike?” Terry asked, coming over and nodding at Mike’s empty beer glass. “Want another?”

“Yes,” Michael handed him the glass. “This is an ex-pint.”

***

“Looks like Graham’s scored.”

“How is it that Graham’s always the one to get lucky?”

“The queers are always up for it. _Ow_. Keep your hands to yourself, Michael. You know it’s true. Sexual liberation and all that. After a thousand years of repression they’re taking advantage of the freedom. It’s oozing out all over the place.”

“Sounds delightful.”

“I don’t know, a little oozing might do us all some good.”

“Still, it looks like that man’s actually more interested in Terry, don’t you think?”

“Yes, Jones does have all the luck, doesn’t he?”

***

“Well, I’ve got to go and phone the wife,” Michael said to John, later.

“Jones forget the wig, did he?”

“What?”

“Nothing. Will you come back?”

“You want to yell at me some more about ‘pining for the fjords’?”

“ _That_ is a stroke of comedy genius.”

“Yes, I’ll come back. Perhaps we can be stroked by some more genius.”

***

“You left the bar.”

“Yes. It was closing shortly anyway.”

“Do you really think we should be using your mini-bar, John? The BBC is paying for this trip.”

“Ahh, yes. Auntie Beeb will be horrified by wine on the room service bill. We’ll be strung up by the licence fee payers. God only knows no good comedy was ever the result of alcohol. Oh, no, wait! Alcohol, sex and drugs... the bread and butter of the comedian.”

“The only drugs we have are paracetamol when Eric yelling ‘Spam!’ for four hours gets too much for my headache.”

“We do have a lot of alcohol, though. We can put this on Graham’s bill, instead. No one will notice it there.”

“Graham does take the lion’s share of the alcohol part for us. Perhaps we should do something about that.”

“Drink it for him?”

“No. John...”

“He’s a grown man, Mike, he can do what he likes. He takes care of the sex part for us, too.”

“He doesn’t, you know. Well, okay, he does. But not with strangers in bars.”

“I could do with hearing less about his and David’s sex life, certainly. But perhaps I’m just jealous. He’s the only one of us getting it on the regular.”

“I’m married, remember, John. I ‘get it on the regular’.”

“Do you? Oh yes, of course. I always forget. Perhaps I’m just jealous.”

“...I should go, call the wife before bed.”

“Didn’t you just call her?”

“I should call her again.”

“Just before bed, eh? Will she accept you _long-distance_? Will you _connect your lines_? Will you wow her with your huge _vocabulary_? Will you...”

“You sound like Eric.”

“No one sounds like Eric. Do we really think long-distance _phone sex_ is appropriate on the BBC’s budget, Michael? I thought you were the responsible one.”

“I _am_ the responsible one. So I’m going to bed. Goodnight, John. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“It’s a good sketch, though, isn’t it?”

“Still some work to do, but, yes. I think so. Denying the obvious is always good for a laugh.”

***


End file.
